


Never Have I Ever

by hudders-and-hiddles (huddersandhiddles)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A night at the pub, Anderson Is a Dick, Drinking Games, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock Roulette, Love Confessions, M/M, Never Have I Ever, Pining Sherlock, Porn with Feelings, Sally isn't very nice, Then fluffy and sweet, a bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 01:44:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4372328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huddersandhiddles/pseuds/hudders-and-hiddles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock tag along for the Met's weekly night out, where the evening's chosen drinking game is Never Have I Ever. Sherlock is reluctant to join in until he realizes he can learn all kinds of new things about John, but he forgets that John might learn a thing or two about him as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Have I Ever

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into עברית available: [אף פעם לא עשיתי (Never Have I Ever)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14196663) by [johnlock_heb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnlock_heb/pseuds/johnlock_heb)



> Thanks to [cakepopsforeveryone](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cakepopsforeveryone/pseuds/cakepopsforeveryone) for betaing, as well as to Nicole (formerly theglitterypotato) for creating [a cover of sorts](http://hudders-and-hiddles.tumblr.com/post/131554618334/he-comes-back-to-the-present-when-john-presses-a) for this fic.

“Isn’t it your turn to pick?” Lestrade asks Anderson.

“Nope. Julia picked last week, so that means it’s Sally’s turn to pick a game.”

“Game? What game?” John asks.

“Each week one of us picks a drinking game to play. We take it in turns,” Lestrade explains.

“Oh, what fun,” Sherlock intones, and John shoots him a glare. He takes a sip of his beer to have an excuse to look away.

It was John’s fault that they were here. He’d been so _friendly_ with MacDonald at the crime scene that she had invited John--and reluctantly Sherlock--to join them at the pub for the weekly NSY night out. Lestrade had invited them along a few times before, but Sherlock had always managed to get out of having to make an appearance, mostly by flat out refusing to attend. This time though, John had insisted, and as loath as Sherlock is to admit it, John generally gets what he wants. So here they are in a pub with four of the Met’s _finest_ , preparing to play some kind of tedious game as an excuse to get as inebriated as possible in order to distract them from their boring little lives. And worse, MacDonald is sitting on the other side of John, distracting him. She laughs nearly every time he speaks and leans in far too close when she responds, allowing the neck of her blouse to fall and expose a peek of her breasts. Sherlock’s hands slip below the table, and he digs his fingernails into his palms to prevent himself from forcibly removing her from John’s presence.

Whatever John says next makes her reach out and lay a hand on his forearm, and Sherlock abruptly pushes his chair back. “Well, as fun as I’m sure all _this_ ,” he waves a hand at the group of them, “will be, I’m going home.”

“Sherlock,” John says, letting out a long-suffering sigh as Sherlock reaches for his coat. “We said we’d come out for drinks, and you haven’t even finished your first one. Stay.” Sherlock opens his mouth to respond, but John adds, “Please,” and Sherlock knows that he’s powerless to resist when John really wants something from him. He stares at John, who gives him a very slight smile and blinks slowly, his deep blue eyes resembling those of a pleading puppy, and the little willpower Sherlock has left crumbles.

“Fine. But I’m not playing.” He plops back into his chair and stares at his half-finished pint.

“Oh no. If you’re going to stay, you’re playing,” Donovan tells him. He glares at her, but she doesn’t shrink away like most people do.

Anderson leans close and whispers in her ear, and her eyes light up as she nods. “Ok, the game is… Never Have I Ever.”

“Nice choice,” MacDonald tells her.

“And how do we play this little game of yours?” Sherlock asks with as much boredom as he can muster without actually yawning.

“What? You’ve never played Never Have I Ever at a party?” Anderson asks. “Oh, that’s right. You’d have to actually be _invited_ to a party for that to happen.” He barks out a mocking laugh. John’s right hand curls into a tight fist where it lays on the table near Sherlock’s arm, and a tiny rush of warmth surges through Sherlock’s chest.

“That’s enough, Anderson,” Lestrade commands. He turns to Sherlock and explains, “We go round and each say something that starts with ‘Never have I ever,’ and everyone who _has_ done that thing, takes a drink. It’s pretty simple. I’m sure a genius like you can figure it out,” he laughs. “MacDonald, you start.”

“Never have I ever...“ She thinks for a moment. “...owned a dog.” Sherlock takes a sip of his beer, and so do Lestrade, Donovan, and John. _Hmmm. John’s never mentioned having a dog before. Maybe this could actually be interesting after all. What else don’t I know?_

John’s turn. “Never have I ever worn glasses or contacts.” MacDonald smiles at John and then drinks. _Ugh._

It’s Sherlock’s turn now. He wants to say something that he actually wants to learn about John, but everything that comes to mind seems far too personal for John to answer honestly in front of everyone else. _Maybe when John’s had more to drink. Oh. That’s it. Just say something that John has definitely done so that he has to drink more._ “Never have I ever been shot.” John quirks an eyebrow at him, clearly knowing that that statement was meant for him, but he lifts his glass to his mouth and drinks. Sherlock tries his hardest not to smile.

 

They continue going round the table offering things they haven’t done--and a few they have, just to see who else has done them, too. Sherlock learns that John has never stolen anything, but he has cheated on a test, that he’s never had anything pierced (unsurprising), but he has smoked a cigarette, that he’s never done any recreational drugs (again unsurprising, and a statement that was obviously aimed at Sherlock), but he has been skinny dipping, the thought of which makes Sherlock’s stomach do a little flip. Before long, John has to get up and get himself and Sherlock both a second pint.

For several more rounds, the statements remain fairly innocuous--”never have I ever been on a rollercoaster,” or “never have I ever had a sibling”--but as everyone becomes more inebriated, their inhibitions lower and things start to take a more _interesting_ turn.

After Sherlock sits down with a third pint for both himself and John, Donovan eyes him for a moment and pronounces, “Never have I ever kissed a man.” She drinks and smiles smugly at him. If he were less pleasantly buzzed, Sherlock might actually care that she’s trying to pry into his preferences and experiences, but at this point he actually is enjoying himself and finds that he doesn’t really mind. He still rolls his eyes at her before he takes a sip of his pint though. MacDonald drinks, as well.

And Lestrade. _Interesting._

And John.

_Very interesting._

Sherlock had long ago suspected that John might be bisexual, but his very vocal denials about the nature of their relationship had led Sherlock to believe that, for once, he may have actually been wrong about something. But now it looks like maybe he had been right all along. _Could’ve been just an experiment or a one time thing, or it could’ve been something more. Need more data._

MacDonald goes next, saying, “Never have I ever kissed a woman.” Everyone but MacDonald drinks. When Sherlock swallows a sip of his beer, John’s eyebrows furrow and for a moment he looks almost angry, his lips slightly pursed and his breath coming a bit harder than normal. _Why would John be angry? It was only the one anyway, back in uni. And technically she kissed me. But why would me kissing a woman at all make John mad?_

Before Sherlock can figure it out, John schools his face back into something more relaxed, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of Sherlock. “Never have I ever been on a double date.” MacDonald and Lestrade drink.

Sherlock shrugs and says resignedly, “Never have I ever been on a date.”

John’s eyes soften, looking at Sherlock in a way that’s sad and sweet and that he hopes isn’t actually full of pity, until Donovan stage whispers to Anderson, “Now _there’s_ a surprise.” John’s expression hardens instantly, his head whipping around to glare at the pair of them as they snicker to themselves. Everyone but Sherlock takes a drink, and as John raises his glass with his left hand, his right slips below the table to Sherlock’s knee, which he gives a light squeeze. It’s comforting and electrifying all at once, and it takes all of Sherlock’s effort not to squirm under John’s touch. Even after John removes his hand, Sherlock can still feel the impression of those five fingertips and that small, steady palm as if they had been burned into his skin. He’s so distracted by it that he doesn’t even hear whatever Lestrade says on his turn.

Anderson, who has somehow managed to become more inebriated than anyone else at the table despite having done less things that would give him cause to drink, leers at Sherlock, and Sherlock braces himself for whatever the idiot is intending to throw at him. “Never have I ever had sex,” Anderson proclaims triumphantly.

 _Oh._ “Is that really the best you can do?” Sherlock laughs. Five pairs of surprised eyes watch as he takes a sip. “Seriously? Why is that so shocking?” He looks around the table at each of them, his gaze finally landing on John who is watching him, mouth hanging slightly open and head tilted a little to the side, as if he were trying to figure out a particularly difficult puzzle. The lights of the pub gleam softly off his sandy hair, and Sherlock has to resist the urge to reach out and run his fingers through it. Instead he rolls his eyes and looks away.

“Never have I ever had sex while high,” Donovan sneers, and Sherlock blanches. That was clearly meant just for him, and it hits a raw nerve, exactly as she had so obviously hoped it would. Sherlock doesn’t particularly enjoy having everyone reminded of his drug habit, but it’s the thought of John being partial to this particular revelation that makes shame well up inside him. He takes a careful sip and stares resolutely at the table. He can see John watching him out of the corner of his eye, but Sherlock refuses to look at him, not wanting to see the disappointment in those navy blue eyes.

MacDonald says something, in response to which Lestrade drinks, but Sherlock doesn’t really notice or care. He’s floating away on a sea of disgrace, a lonely boat battered by waves of regret and embarrassment and self-loathing, and it won’t be long before he drowns. An unexpected warmth spreads from his knee, up his thigh, past his hip, through his roiling stomach, and into his too-tight chest. The feeling anchors him, grounds him back in reality, and he realizes that John’s hand has returned to his knee. He doesn’t squeeze this time, just lightly rests it on Sherlock’s leg and leaves it there. It’s reassurance. It’s forgiveness. It’s apology. It’s absolute, unwavering, unending loyalty. It’s everything all at once, and Sherlock wonders how such a small gesture can be so very much.

John’s turn. “Never have I ever sent someone a picture of myself naked,” he says, taking the conversation back into a somewhat lighter direction, and Sherlock is as grateful for John’s non-idiocy as he’s ever been. Anderson and Donovan both drink, and Sherlock immediately deletes that he ever learned that.

There are things Sherlock still wants to know about John, especially regarding John’s possible bisexuality, but he also doesn’t want to push too hard, particularly after John has been so caring of Sherlock’s own feelings tonight. Perhaps it would be better if he could get someone else to press those particular issues. _Oh, that’s it._ “Never have I ever had sex with a woman,” he declares. MacDonald and Sherlock are the only ones who don’t drink. Anderson chokes on his own beer when he realizes that Donovan is taking a sip of her pint. John, of course, drinks because he has sex with women, but Sherlock tries his best not to think about that. His focus is already on the next statement, which logically will be...

“Never have I ever had sex with a man,” Lestrade offers. Sherlock, Donovan, and MacDonald all drink. John fixes Lestrade with a stare and purses his lips. After a moment, he huffs out one short, not-quite-amused chuckle and takes a quick swig of his beer. _OH._ Sherlock snaps around to face John, his eyebrows rising high enough to disappear behind his mop of dark curls, but John just shakes his head with a small, wry smile and looks away.

 _John has had sex with a man. John has had sex with a man. John. Has had sex. With a MAN. Why does he always act so offended then when people suggest he isn’t straight? It’s true, isn’t it? Or maybe it was just a one-time thing. And that bothers him because he is straight. But if it really bothered him that much, would he have admitted it here? God knows what Anderson and Donovan might do with that information. No, it can’t bother him that much. Which means it probably wasn’t just a mistake or an experiment. So he is bisexual. But then why deny it so vociferously when people suggest we’re a… Oh._ Sherlock’s rising hopes come crashing back down. _Oh… He IS interested in men. He just isn’t interested in me. Not that I thought he was. But I thought that was because he doesn’t like men at all. But he does like men. Just not me. He doesn’t want people to think that WE are a couple._

“Oi, freak. You still playing?” Sherlock claws his way through his panic and disappointment and looks up at Donovan blankly.

“Never have I ever fantasized about someone at this table,” Anderson says. They all drink, and then they all look at each other in surprise. Most of their heads turn from one to the other trying to figure out who fantasizes about whom-- _Lestrade about MacDonald, MacDonald about John and Lestrade, Anderson and Donovan about each other,_ Sherlock deduces--but Sherlock stares resolutely at John. _Who does he fantasize about at this table? It’s probably MacDonald. Please don’t let it be Donovan. Or Lestrade. Or Anderson. Ewww. No. It definitely can’t be Anderson. It’s probably MacDonald, but please don’t let it be her either._ The thought only makes Sherlock feel worse. He’s not enjoying this game so much anymore. He thinks that maybe it’s about time to call it a night and head home, but John’s hand is still on his knee and he doesn’t want to bring an end to that any sooner than he absolutely has to. If there’s no hope that he and John will ever be anything more than friends, then this is the most he’s likely to ever get, and he wants to savor it while it lasts.

“Never have I ever fantasized about a flatmate,” Donovan says pointedly, and Sherlock wants to strangle her. _She knows. How can she possibly know? I’m always so careful not to let my feelings for him show. But she knows, and she’s doing this just to humiliate me._ He can’t bring himself to lie though, so Sherlock takes a drink. _Hopefully John will think I’ve just fantasized about some other flatmate that I used to have. Please don’t let him think it’s him. I don’t want him to be embarrassed or to make things awkward, and I definitely don’t want him to leave._

When John takes a sip, too, Sherlock is reminded of all John’s girlfriends--and maybe boyfriends, he remembers--and feels a sharp stab of jealousy. _Of course, he’s lived with at least one of them at some point and fantasized about her or him._ This game is making Sherlock feel worse by the minute.

Next to him, John shifts in his seat and his hand slides a few inches farther up Sherlock’s thigh, and Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat. It’s probably nothing, he knows, just caused by the changing position of John’s arm as he makes himself more comfortable in his chair, but Sherlock can’t help the way his heart beats faster anyway and the tiny spark of hope that reignites deep inside his chest.

“Never have I ever video chatted with someone when one of us was naked.” Sherlock and John catch each other’s eye, and they both dissolve into giggles thinking about the time that Sherlock sent John off to a crime scene with a laptop. Sherlock had lain in bed naked--that’s how he always sleeps after all--Skyping with John about the case, only bothering to put on a sheet when he had to wander out to where the client was waiting in the sitting room. John had chastised him about it later, not the nudity or walking around in a sheet, but making the client wait while they Skyped away in another room. John raises his glass and clinks it against the rim of Sherlock’s in a cheerful toast before they each take a drink, everyone else eyeing them suspiciously. When John pulls the glass from his mouth, a trace bit of foam clings to his upper lip, and his tongue darts out to lick it away. Sherlock’s stomach flutters, and he forces himself to look anywhere but at John and his delicious mouth.

John’s thumb begins to sweep lightly back and forth against the outside of Sherlock’s thigh, and Sherlock has to close his eyes momentarily to both fully catalog the sensation and prevent himself from hyperventilating. He’s not even sure that John knows he’s doing it. It’s probably just an absentminded reflex, but to Sherlock it’s the first inhale of a cigarette. It’s a glass of expensive scotch at the end of a good day. It’s the opening notes of a new composition echoing from his violin. It’s a case that he thought was a 3 turning out to be an 8. It calms and ignites and intrigues and terrifies him all at once.

John’s voice pulls him out of his soaring thoughts. “Never have I ever caught someone mastubrating.” _Oh no. Does John know? Or at least suspect?_ Sherlock had been in the sitting room late one night just last week, when he had heard a deep grunt echo down the stairs followed by a softer moan. He had thought that John was having a nightmare, and so he crept up the stairs, avoiding the places he knew creaked so that he wouldn’t wake John. John didn’t know it, but Sherlock often snuck up to his room when he had nightmares and laid a hand gently on his good shoulder until he calmed and fell back into a more restful sleep. He paused outside John’s room and listened to the sounds floating gently through the crack in the door. John’s breath seemed to be coming faster and harsher than normal, and Sherlock thought the nightmare must have been particularly bad this time. He made to open the door wider, but a throaty “Oh, sh--” escaped John’s mouth and Sherlock found himself unable to move. John had never talked in his sleep before. Understanding flooded Sherlock’s brain, and he knew he should leave, but he just couldn’t make his feet turn him back around. Instead, he pressed a palm against the door and carefully eased it open another inch or two so that he could peer inside. He couldn’t see much in the dark, but he could at least tell that John was indeed awake and was very much _not_ having a nightmare. Sherlock had stood transfixed, torn between knowing this wasn’t something he was meant to witness and his deeply buried desire to know every intimate detail of what John looks and sounds like in a moment of ultimate pleasure. But no, not like this. He didn’t want to find out like this. If he is ever to know what that moment is like, it will be because John has chosen for him to know, has given himself over to Sherlock’s touch, has trusted Sherlock with his steady heart and his solid body and his fragile soul. And even though that will likely never happen, not knowing for that reason would be better than knowing for this one, so he finally turned and forced himself back down the stairs.

Sherlock takes a sip and forces himself not to look at John, not to give anything away. _It could be anyone else. It could be Mycroft for all he knows. Oh god. Don’t think about Mycroft._ MacDonald, Lestrade, and Anderson drink, too, and Sherlock frowns and tries not to think about his brother.

It’s his turn again, so Sherlock decides to throw some discomfort back at Anderson and Donovan. “Never have I ever cheated on someone or been the one with whom someone cheated.” They both take begrudging sips, as does MacDonald. _Even better._ One look at MacDonald and Sherlock observes that she was the one who cheated. _See if John’s interested in you now._ That statement was far more effective than Sherlock had anticipated, and he tries not to smile too obviously.

On Lestrade’s turn, he says, “Never have I ever had sex in a public place.” _Ever the law-abiding good cop._ Everyone but Lestrade drinks, and Sherlock can’t help but wonder where John might have had sex.

He can’t allow himself to imagine for long though because Anderson and Donovan start whispering to one another, shooting glances his way as they undoubtedly discuss where to take this next. A shiver runs up Sherlock’s spine, a brief frisson of fear of what they might try to get him to admit, and it sobers him quite efficiently. John’s thumb brushing steadily back and forth, back and forth on his leg is the only thing preventing him from jumping up and running out of the pub right now. _You can always lie. No one will know. Whatever they say, you can lie about it. You lie all the time to witnesses and security guards and suspects and Lestrade. It will be fine._

Anderson grins at him in a way that is anything but friendly, and Sherlock breathes deeply and wills his face not to reveal anything in response to whatever statement Anderson is about to make. Anderson says, “Never have I ever…” Sherlock braces himself for the worst. “...had sex with anyone at this table.”

Sherlock almost laughs in relief. _Oh thank god. As usual, they examine the evidence and come to the wrong conclusion. I don’t even have to lie about that one._ Anderson and Donovan eye both Sherlock and John warily, but eventually they have to accept that the pair of them aren’t going to drink and take sips of their own drinks instead.

John’s hand inexplicably slides another few inches up Sherlock’s leg, and Sherlock’s brain skitters to a halt. Everything is just white noise. When he comes back to himself, Sally is looking at him with a glint in her eye and a knowing smirk that he does not like at all. As much as he doesn’t like the idea of standing up and losing the feeling of John’s hand against him, he knows that he’s going to like what Sally is about to say even less.

“John, I think it’s time to go,” he says, standing abruptly and mourning the loss of that gentle pressure on his thigh.

“What? Sherlock, why?” John isn’t moving fast enough, so Sherlock pulls his chair away from the table and throws his coat at him.

 _Because Donovan is about to try to make me say something you don’t want to hear._ “I think I left a Bunsen burner on. You don’t want me to burn down the flat, do you?”

John sighs. “Sherlock, you didn’t leave a Bunsen burner on. I _always_ check them before we leave, after you left one on overnight that one time. If you want to go, we can go, but can’t we at least stay and finish the round first? Sally’s the last one to go in this round. It’s just one more go.”

 _No!_ Sherlock wants to scream it at him, to pull him bodily from the pub before Donovan can say a word.

“Yeah. It’s just one more,” Donovan taunts.

John makes no further move to stand, and Sherlock runs his hand through his hair in frustration, his long fingers tangling in the messy curls and pulling out several dark strands. She’s going to say it, and he’s not going to be able to lie, not about this, no matter how hard he tries, and John will know everything, and everything will be ruined because John doesn’t want him, not like that, and then John will leave, and if John leaves it will kill Sherlock. His heart will stop beating because he doesn’t know how to live without John Watson in his life and he wouldn’t want to even if he did know how.

“Never have I ever…”

“Don’t,” Sherlock pleads.

He knows how that statement ends. _...been in love with someone at this table._ It’s written in every line on Donovan’s face. He looks at her, begging her not to finish saying it. “Please,” he adds, his voice barely more than a whisper. In concession, he picks up his glass and drains the rest of his pint. He carefully sets the glass back on the table. “Happy?” Sherlock never even sees her victorious smile because he’s already swirling around and flinging himself out of the pub as quickly as he can manage. He’s managed to flag down a cab by the time John joins him. They climb in and ride in silence back to Baker Street.

 

Sherlock throws cash at the cab driver while John unlocks the front door. They hang up their coats, and Sherlock trudges up the stairs to 221B. He turns for his bedroom, but a firm hand on his arm stops him.

“Sherlock,” John says gently. “Do you want to tell me what happened back there?”

“Leave it, John,” Sherlock implores, trying to turn again, but John tightens his grip on Sherlock’s arm.

“I thought we were having a nice time. A bit of fun, yeah? Why did you run out like that?”

Sherlock grits his teeth. “John, please. I’m asking you to leave it alone.” His nerves are raw, and he’s nearly shaking with the effort to keep from snapping at John. All he wants is to escape to his room and sneak a cigarette, blowing the smoke out the window so John and Mrs. Hudson won’t notice.

John sighs and loosens his grip on Sherlock’s arm but doesn’t remove his hand entirely. “Look, if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. I’m not going to force you, but…” John thinks for a moment and comes to some kind of a decision. “Come here,” he says, tugging the sleeve of Sherlock’s suit jacket, guiding him back into the sitting room and into his chair. Sherlock looks up at him questioningly, but John just says, “Back in a sec,” and disappears into the kitchen.

Sherlock closes his eyes and slips into his mind palace, trying to sort the evening’s experiences into the appropriate places. He desperately wants to remember the feeling of John’s hand on his leg, and he needs to file away all the new things he learned about John, too. Other parts, however, he’d prefer to forget, so he places them off to one side to be deleted later.

He comes back to the present when John presses a glass into his hand, toes off his shoes, and sits in the chair opposite with a glass of his own. “Play a few more rounds with me.”

“John, I… I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He moves to stand, but John sticks out one socked foot and presses it against Sherlock’s calf to stop him.

“Please, Sherlock. For me.” John does that slow, puppy dog blink again, and Sherlock decides that John _must_ do that on purpose. He must know that when he does it, Sherlock will give him whatever he wants. But even if he does it purposely, it doesn’t change the outcome--Sherlock is still going to give in to him. He is absolutely terrified of what might happen, but if John wants to keep playing this game, then that’s what they’ll do. He settles back into his chair and nods. It’s hard to see much in the darkened sitting room, the only lights those of the city and the moon streaming through the curtains, but Sherlock can still see the fond smile John aims at him, and the tightness in his chest unclenches a little.

John starts. “Never have I ever microwaved an eyeball,” he says with a chuckle. Sherlock can’t help but laugh, too, and a little more of his anxiety dissipates. He raises his glass in a mock toast to John and takes a sip. It’s not their best scotch, but after all the beer tonight, it’s sweet on his tongue and burns beautifully on its way down his throat.

Sherlock decides to let John set the tone for this game, as John’s the one who wanted to play, so he says, “Never have I ever shot a cabbie.”

John laughs heartily and takes a sip. “Never have I ever gotten into a sword fight in this sitting room.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen at John in surprise. “I didn’t think you knew about that.” He takes a sip.

“I’m full of secrets,” John teases.

 _Indeed you are, John Watson_. “Never have I ever gotten into a row with a chip-and-pin machine.”

“That was one time,” John says exasperatedly after he takes a drink.

They fall into companionable silence. After a while, John says quietly, “Never have I ever been in love with a woman.”

John takes a sip of his own drink, but his eyes never leave Sherlock’s face, which is displaying a mixture of confusion and dismay. He stares at John, trying to sort out where that question came from. When Sherlock doesn’t move to take a drink, something in John’s demeanor lightens, though Sherlock would be incapable of pinpointing the exact change in his expression. _Why would he think I was in love with a woman? And what woman? ...Oh_. _OH._

Sherlock is starting to piece this together, but he doesn’t dare to let himself hope that he could be right. If he hopes and he’s wrong, it will crush him. If he hopes and he says something and he’s wrong, it will crush him and John will leave him and he will die.

He locks his feelings deep inside his heart and forces his brain to do all the work. “Never have I ever been jealous of Irene Adler.” John purses his lips and stares at the unlit fireplace for a long moment before he takes a sip.

Still looking at the fireplace, John says, “Never have I ever intentionally tried to run off my flatmate’s dates because I was jealous of them.” Sherlock takes a sip of his scotch without hesitation. If this is going where he thinks--but can’t allow himself to hope--it’s going, he has to be honest and forthcoming, and John needs to be, too.

Now’s as good a time as any to be sure of what he thinks he learned earlier tonight. “Never have I ever been bisexual.”

John turns to look at him then and chuckles. “I should think that was fairly obvious after some of the things that were said earlier.” He takes a sip of his scotch and stares at Sherlock’s face, his eyes searching for something there. Sherlock holds his gaze and lets him look as long as he needs to, allowing himself to hope just a _little_ that John will find whatever it is there that he’s looking for.

Softly, John says, “Never have I ever been in love.” Neither of them looks away as they each take a sip.

They’re dancing around the edge of it here. Sherlock knows that this is the moment when they will fall or they will fly, but he can’t bring himself to be the one to make the leap.

“Sherlock,” John breathes, and the way his name sounds on John’s tongue makes Sherlock feel like he could crack in two. “It’s your go.” Sherlock shakes his head a fraction of an inch to either side, too terrified of being wrong to say a single word.

John leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees and staring intently up at Sherlock’s face. He whispers, “Never have I ever…” John swallows nervously, and Sherlock holds his breath. “...been in love with my flatmate.”

_This is it. Take one sip, and John will know. He’ll know everything you’ve ever wanted him to know. Everything you’ve ever been afraid for him to know. He’ll know everything you ever were and ever will be because John Watson is the beginning and the end of Sherlock Holmes._

Sherlock barely manages to keep his hand from shaking as he lifts the glass to his lips and swallows down the rest of the amber liquid under John’s watchful gaze. When he’s done, he sets the glass down on the arm of his chair and waits.

John lets out a loud breath, hangs his head, and runs his free hand through the short, bristly hairs on the back of his head. _Oh god, what have I done? No. He’s going to leave now. I told him, and he’s going to leave._ Sherlock curses his honesty. He curses MacDonald for inviting them out. He curses John for making him go. He curses Donovan for picking this stupid game. But most of all he curses himself and his weakness for John Watson. It’s ruined everything.

Sherlock presses his eyes tightly closed and wills the building moisture not to fall. He can’t cry here in front of John--John, who is everything good and true and happy and beautiful and right in Sherlock’s life. Both of Sherlock’s hands tangle in his hair and he pulls tightly, the pain grounding him, keeping him from drifting away in the ebb and flow of his misery.

Small, warm hands close around his, and a gentle voice says to him, “Oh, Sherlock, no.” John’s voice is soft and warm and full of something that sounds like affection, but that doesn’t make any sense. “Let go,” John murmurs, brushing his thumbs tenderly over the backs of Sherlock’s hands. Sherlock can’t bring himself to look up at John or even to open his eyes, but he does let go of his hair, dropping his hands to his lap.

One of John’s hands cups Sherlock’s chin and lifts gently, but Sherlock pulls away, turning his face back toward the floor. John can’t see. He can’t see because if he sees the tears that are managing to escape Sherlock’s eyes despite his best efforts to hold them at bay, then John will feel guilty and that’s not okay because none of this is his fault. Sherlock’s stupid heart is to blame.

Sherlock feels rather than sees John crouch in front of him. His arms press lightly into Sherlock’s thighs, steadying himself for a fleeting moment, and despite the pain in Sherlock’s chest, his heart beats faster at the touch that’s gone too soon.

Sherlock jumps slightly as calloused fingertips slide gently along his cheeks, breaking the trail of silent tears sliding down his face. John’s thumbs stroke ever-so-lightly back and forth along his cheekbones, as he says, his voice thick with emotion, “Sherlock, please look at me.”

Sherlock inhales a shaky breath and slowly peels open his eyes. Through the watery sting he can blurrily see John’s rugged face peering up at him, a tender smile playing on his lips. He holds Sherlock’s gaze as he reaches behind him with one hand, absently fumbling for something on the floor. He finds it and presses it into Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock looks down at an empty glass, and he doesn’t understand. _Why is John handing me an empty glass? Is that supposed to mean something to me? I don’t understand._ He shakes his head, and whispers, “I don’t…” John reaches up to the arm of Sherlock’s chair and then presses a second glass into Sherlock’s other hand. _Empty. It’s also empty. Just like my life will be without John in it. But what’s the point? Why does he keep handing me empty glasses? Why are they empty? What does it… Oh._

Sherlock’s head snaps up, and he looks at John in total disbelief. He blinks rapidly, trying to encourage his brain to catch back up to the present situation. “You… your…”

“Yes?” John says patiently.

“Your glass is empty,” Sherlock finally manages to spit out, looking down at his hands and back up at John in wonder.

John smiles brightly, and in his eyes Sherlock sees warmth and tenderness and adoration and beauty and light and truth and entire universes. _OH._ Only then does he allow himself to see, to truly believe, what’s right in front of him.

The hand on Sherlock’s cheek slides down to his neck, where it grips him lightly, fingertips brushing softly through the fine hairs at Sherlock’s nape. John’s other hand finds the edge of Sherlock’s jaw, and his thumb sweeps lightly over Sherlock’s mouth. A chill runs down Sherlock’s spine, and his heart jolts itself into a faster rhythm. He leans down, and John slowly presses up until their noses touch. Their eyes close, and the hand on Sherlock’s jaw slides further back, curling gently into his dark hair. John runs his nose up the side of Sherlock’s and back down again, hesitating when their mouths are so, so close, just breathing each other in. When John whispers, his breath ghosts across Sherlock’s lips, warm and moist. “Can I kiss you?”

“Please,” Sherlock breathes, and John’s mouth presses against his own.

Before Sherlock can even begin to catalog the feeling of John’s lips, their gentle pressure is gone, and Sherlock feels as if the world has gone dark. He cautiously open his eyes and pulls his head back until he can focus on John’s face.

John’s eyes are still squeezed tightly closed and his breath is loud and raspy. “John?” Sherlock asks hesitantly.

“Just… just give me a minute,” he says shakily. He exhales several long, unsteady breaths and then finally opens his watery eyes. Relief washes over Sherlock when he sees that John is still looking at him as if he is something precious.

“Are you okay?” Sherlock asks.

“Yes, I…” John croaks. He clears his throat and tries again. “I’ve wanted this for so long. _So_ long, Sherlock. But I never thought that… that this could happen. I thought you didn’t… want anyone, that you’d never want me. I don’t even know why you would...” Sherlock presses his lips to John’s again, cutting off whatever else he might have said. _John should never say things like that. He must know how amazing and beautiful and perfect he is. He has to know. I have to show him._ Sherlock slides his full lips along John’s thinner ones, revelling in the connection and pouring as much of his love as he can into this simple gesture. John’s lips part and his tongue darts out to flick against Sherlock’s lower lip. Sherlock opens his mouth in response and lets John’s tongue slip past his lips. When John’s tongue licks tentatively against his own, Sherlock moans deeply. Kissing John is not like any kiss he’s ever had before. It’s a drop of water on his tongue when he’s parched. It’s the velvety caress of cocaine entering his bloodstream. It’s the first shaking breath after nearly drowning. Kissing John is a revelation, and the more he gets of it, the more he wants.

Sherlock forgets to breathe, and when they finally part he is panting heavily. He keeps his eyes closed, working to quickly file away every single detail of the experience and needing a moment to remind himself that this is real.

John stands, and Sherlock presses his face against John’s belly and wraps his arms tightly around John’s back. John threads his hands into Sherlock’s hair and scratches lightly along his scalp, causing Sherlock to hmmm in contentment. Eventually Sherlock lets go and sits back, but John reaches out and catches one of Sherlock’s hands in his own. He tries to urge Sherlock to standing, but Sherlock isn’t ready to move just yet, so he tugs harder and pulls John toward him instead. John nearly falls into Sherlock but catches himself on the back of Sherlock’s chair, one arm on either side of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock could get used to this, this feeling of being trapped in place by John, who licks his lips and looks at Sherlock hungrily.

Sherlock places one hand on the back of John’s knee and pulls. John gets the point quickly and folds himself so that he’s straddling Sherlock’s lap, one knee on each side of Sherlock’s thighs, pushing into the arms of his chair. Sherlock’s hands press against John’s back, pulling him down until they’re kissing again. Where a moment ago, it was slow and sweet and sensual, this kiss is fiery hot and desperately hungry. His hands rove up and down John’s back, unable to settle, searching wildly for more. John’s hands find Sherlock’s hair again, tugging slightly, and Sherlock groans into John’s mouth. John pulls a little harder and mouths his way down to Sherlock’s chin. Along the sharp edge of his jaw. Across the fluttery pulse point below his ear. Down his long, pale neck, raising goosebumps up and down the length of Sherlock’s body. Sherlock can feel his and John’s desire joining together and settling deep in his bones, and suddenly his entire body aches with the need for more. More of John’s mouth, more of John’s hands, more of John’s skin.

Sherlock’s hands smooth down John’s back and find the bottom of his thick jumper, one hand sliding beneath it in search of bare skin, the other continuing down to cup his arse, greedily pulling John closer until he can feel their erections pressing against each other. The spike of pleasure that rolls up Sherlock’s spine from the contact breaks into a rumble in his chest, and John moans into Sherlock’s neck in response. Sherlock squeezes John’s arse and pulls him forward again and again, enthusiastically undulating John’s hips so that John’s cock presses against his own over and over and over.

When John pulls his mouth away from Sherlock’s neck, Sherlock feels bereft, but John’s hands slide to the front of his shirt and carefully pop each button through its hole, punctuating each with a kiss to Sherlock’s cheekbones or forehead or nose or lips, and _yes, this, good_. _John is a genius._ Sherlock reluctantly removes his hands from John’s backside to allow John access to his cuffs. John unbuttons the first cuff and pushes it open, placing a feather-light kiss against the inside of Sherlock’s wrist before dropping his hand and reaching for the other. He undoes the button, spreads the fabric wide, and runs the point of his tongue up the vein he finds there. When a light scrape of teeth follows, Sherlock can’t control the shiver that racks through his body. He can feel John smile against his wrist, pressing one more whisper of a kiss against it before dropping his hand and sliding Sherlock’s open shirt down his narrow shoulders. Sherlock takes the hint and leans forward to remove his shirt the rest of the way, flinging it across the room and not caring at all if it gets wrinkled or dirty or lost or ruined. He’ll buy a new shirt every day for the rest of time if he has to, if it means that John will take it off of him and look at him like that, like he’s something to be devoured.

Where John was eternally patient in removing Sherlock’s shirt, Sherlock is as impatient as ever with John’s. His hands find the bottom of the wooly jumper and pull it roughly up and over John’s head and arms in one swift movement. And now they’re both shirtless, and as much as Sherlock wants to feel John’s skin against his own, he can’t stop looking at John’s body, drinking in as much detail as he can in the dim light streaming through the windows. He can’t see it as well as he’d like--there’ll be time for that later, he hopes--but John’s scar is there, and he has to know what it feels like this instant. Sherlock reaches up and tenderly lays his palm flat across the puckered skin where John was once broken apart and put back together again. His hand slides slowly down so that his fingertips can play across the small dips and rises he finds there. This scar is the Braille story of John’s life before Sherlock. It’s a relief map of his pain and joy and triumph and loss. This beautiful mark is what brought John into Sherlock’s life, and he will spend the rest of his life worshipping it.

Sherlock feels John’s chest heave, and when he looks up, John’s eyes are squeezed tightly closed, his face turned away from Sherlock. “John?” he asks softly.

John’s only response is to rigidly shake his head. Leaving his hand gently resting on John’s scar, Sherlock slides his other against John’s cheek, reveling in the feeling of the stubble scratching his palm, and guides John’s face back toward him. “Please talk to me,” Sherlock murmurs.

John doesn’t open his eyes, but he also doesn’t pull away from Sherlock’s touch. He huffs out a hard breath, his face pinched in… anger? frustration? No. Sherlock’s seen those often enough, and this is something different. _Pain._ _John is in pain. Why? What did I do?_ _Did I do something wrong? John shouldn’t be in pain. John should never be in pain._ He wants to pull words from John’s throat, force some kind of explanation, so that he can figure out how to fix this, but he’s also known John long enough to understand that pushing him won’t help. John isn’t good at these things--at talking about how he feels--so Sherlock waits, trusting that John will tell him what and when he can, sweeping his thumb tenderly back and forth across John’s temple.

Finally, John chokes out in a harsh whisper,  “I’m broken, Sherlock… and _this_ ,” he presses his hand over Sherlock’s where it lies across his scar, “is an ugly reminder of that... And you’re looking at it... like that… like it’s not… like _I’m_ not… but…”

“Shhhhh.” Sherlock presses a soft kiss against John’s lips before telling him, “It’s not ugly, John. It’s beautiful. _You_ are beautiful. You’re _not_ broken. You’re perfect.”

John forcefully shakes his head in disagreement. “I’m not. I’m really not.”

“You are, John,” Sherlock says. “You are good and kind and loyal and brave. You are the best man I have ever known. You _are_ perfect. You’re perfect for me. And I love you, John Watson.”

John inhales sharply and his eyes pop open. “Say it again.”

Sherlock’s lips curl into a soft smile. “I love you, John.”

The remnants of John’s pained expression are wiped away by the warm grin spreading across his face, his eyes crinkling around the edges in a way that makes Sherlock’s heart soar.. “And I love you, Sherlock Holmes,” he replies. And then he laughs, and it’s a sound so full of joy and wonder and relief that Sherlock immediately builds a room just for that in his mind palace, where it can live on forever and he can visit whenever he likes. “Christ, I love you so fucking much. I’ve wanted to tell you that for so long. I love you, I love you, I love you.” Then they’re kissing again, pressed together, chest to chest, arms wrapped around each other’s backs, clinging so tightly to each other it’s hard to breathe, and John is pulling Sherlock’s bottom lip between his teeth, and Sherlock is exploring and memorizing every bit of John’s mouth that he can touch, and John is sucking lightly on Sherlock’s tongue, and John’s lips are muffling the sound of Sherlock’s small, needy whimpers.

“John,” Sherlock pleads between kisses. “Take me to bed.”

“Oh god yes.” John is up and out of his lap, pulling Sherlock to his feet and dragging him down the hall to his bedroom. He pauses just inside the door, and Sherlock takes advantage of the opportunity to push him up against the wall and kiss him thoroughly. John’s hands are in Sherlock’s hair again, as he kisses and licks across John’s jaw, leaving a trail of tiny wet spots in his wake, his own hands moving to unbutton and unzip John’s trousers. He slides his fingers a few inches inside the waistband of John’s pants and gently rakes through the soft curls he finds there, at the same time that he scrapes his teeth across John’s ear lobe. John growls, _actually growls_ , in response, and Sherlock has never heard a sexier sound in his life.

He can’t wait any longer. He needs to see and feel and taste John’s cock, right now. He slides to his knees, tugging John’s trousers and pants down until his erection springs free. Sherlock runs a single long finger up the underside, just barely brushing along the entire length, and John’s entire body freezes at this slight touch. When Sherlock reaches the end, he slips his finger upward to collect the bead of pre-come slowly rolling down the head of John’s cock. His eyes flick to John’s as he puts his finger in his mouth and sucks, relishing the taste of the salty bitterness on his tongue.

John’s eyes go wide and his head falls slackly back against the wall with a thud, his breath coming in harsh pants. “Christ, Sherlock.”

“Not good?” Sherlock asks, afraid that he’s overstepped some kind of line.

“No, it’s good,” John reassures him breathily. “It’s very, very goo…” he manages before Sherlock licks a wet stripe up the length of John’s shaft and closes his lips around the head. And then there are no more words, just John’s labored puffs of breath and the slick sound of Sherlock’s mouth sliding against John’s skin.

When Sherlock moans around him, John brokenly begs, “Stop. Oh… Sher... Please. Please stop.” Sherlock sucks lightly as he pulls his mouth back, letting John slide from his lips with a moist pop before looking questioningly up at him. “You can’t… You can’t keep doing that,” John pants. “Or this is going to be over far too soon.” Sherlock grins devilishly, quite pleased with himself. “Bed. Now,” John commands, and Sherlock jumps to obey. “And lose the rest of that,” he says, waving a hand in the general direction of Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock hurries to pull off his shoes and socks and trousers and pants and then sits on the edge of the bed, leans back on his hands, and watches intently as John finishes stripping off his own clothes.

Sherlock has to take a minute to appreciate his miraculous good fortune. He had thought at one point tonight that he would lose John forever, and instead John is here, in his bedroom, looking at him as if he’s something desirable and lovable and good. They’re both here, and they’re naked, and they’re together, and it’s more than Sherlock could have ever possibly hoped for.

John settles himself between Sherlock’s open knees and strokes his hands up and down the tops of Sherlock’s thighs, pressing up to kiss him messily. His mouth travels down Sherlock’s neck, pausing to suckle lightly at his Adam’s apple, before he continues down past his sharp collarbones to his pale chest. His mouth closes over one small, dark nipple, and Sherlock hisses in pleasure when John’s tongue flicks against the sensitive skin. The lightest suction makes his back arch dangerously, and when John drags his teeth across the hardened tip, Sherlock’s arms give out and he collapses back onto the mattress.

Unfazed, John’s hands push Sherlock’s legs wide, and his mouth finds the inside of Sherlock’s left thigh, just above his knee. He presses open-mouthed kisses to the soft, tender skin, working his way up Sherlock’s leg, stopping to lick here or gingerly bite there or just to let his breath delicately waft over the fine, dark hairs and send sparks of desire coursing through Sherlock’s veins. Once he’s worked all the way up Sherlock’s leg, he pauses, and Sherlock looks down his body to find John looking back up at him, his eyes dark with desire. John opens his mouth and moves to hover over the tip of Sherlock’s cock, his breath damp and hot on Sherlock’s skin, breathing heavily so that Sherlock can feel each exhale like a caress. Sherlock’s head falls back onto the bed, and it’s all he can do not to push himself up into John’s waiting mouth. Just when Sherlock can’t hold out any longer, John’s warm breath is gone. Instead, his tongue wriggles against the place where Sherlock’s right leg meets his groin, and Sherlock gasps in surprise. John proceeds to kiss and lick and bite and breathe his way down Sherlock’s right leg, as Sherlock keens in frustration and want. By the time John reaches his right knee, Sherlock’s entire body is trembling.

John sits back on his heels and takes in the mess of desire that Sherlock has become. “God, you’re gorgeous.”

Sherlock presses a quivering hand across his eyes. “J-John,” he pleads, and then John’s mouth is right where he wants it, licking a long, wet stripe up the bottom of his shaft. One of John’s sturdy hands wraps around the base and holds him steady as John’s tongue swirls around the head and then presses into the slit to lick away the fluid that has collected there. Sherlock wants to watch, but he knows that if he opens his eyes and sees John’s pink tongue darting out to taste him or John’s small mouth stretched wide as it slides up and down over him, he will crash over the edge then and there, so he keeps his eyes tightly shut and tries to memorize every detail of the way John’s calloused fingers feel against his delicate skin, the exact pressure with which John sucks when he hollows his cheeks, the low moan that sometimes rumbles in John’s throat and rolls through Sherlock’s body like thunder.

And then it’s suddenly all too much and not nearly enough. “Jo-” he whispers, his voice breaking. He exhales shakily and tries again, “John.” Only when John stops and slides completely off of him does he chance looking down, and even then the sight of John’s heavy-lidded eyes looking up at him and his cock glistening with John’s saliva is almost enough to make him come. “John, please,” he implores. “Please.”

“What do you want?” John asks, his voice deep and rough.

“Fuck me,” he begs. “Please, John. Please fuck me.”

John’s hands brush up and down Sherlock’s hips, his fingertips leaving trails of fire under Sherlock’s skin. “We don’t have to do that tonight, Sherlock, we can…”

“No. I want you... I _need_ you inside me.” Sherlock can see the wave of longing crash over John. He grabs John’s hands and tugs, urging John to join him on the bed. He slides around until his head finds a pillow, and John crawls up and presses his body along the length of Sherlock’s side, throwing a leg across his thigh and tucking a foot under his calf.

John caresses his cheek and peers deep into his eyes. “If you’re sure that’s what you want.”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes.

“Alright.” John nods. “Do you have…”

“Drawer.”

John twists around and digs a half-empty bottle of lubricant out of the drawer of Sherlock’s nightstand.

“What about condoms?”

“Don’t need them.” _And don’t want them._

“Yes, we do,” John protests.

“No. We don’t. I’m clean. Know you are, too,”

“Ok, I don’t even want to know how you know that,” John says in mild exasperation as he slides back into place along Sherlock’s side. Sherlock opens his mouth, but John bends down and kisses him thoroughly. “I said I didn’t want to know,” he whispers against Sherlock’s lips, and Sherlock can feel him smile.

John uncaps the bottle and slicks his fingers. His lips find Sherlock’s again as he sets the bottle aside, and their tongues lap greedily at one another. When Sherlock is breathless once more, John noses along his jaw, tracing the sharp contour until he can suck lightly on Sherlock’s earlobe. “Ready?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper, the current against Sherlock’s ear sending a cool shiver down his spine. Sherlock can only nod. He spreads his knees wide as John kisses down his neck and brings his hand down to rest between Sherlock’s legs. Just above Sherlock’s collarbone, John licks once and then sucks hard, hard enough to bruise, at the same time that he slips the tip of one finger inside of Sherlock’s arse, and Sherlock groans loudly.

John wiggles his finger a bit and carefully presses it further into Sherlock’s body. It’s not enough, and Sherlock rocks his hips, trying to push himself down on John’s finger, but John slides his finger slowly back out instead. When only the very tip remains inside, John pushes back in, a little faster this time. He does it again. And again. _Not enough_. “More,” Sherlock moans.

This time John’s finger slides all the way out as he pulls Sherlock’s bottom lip between his own, and on the way back in, it’s joined by a second finger. Sherlock relishes the gentle stretch and the way John’s fingers wriggle inside him. Sherlock’s kisses take on a desperate edge, all tongues and teeth and heaving breaths. When John curls his fingers and lightly brushes across Sherlock’s prostate, his hips buck, and the edge of his vision crackles and blurs. “More, John. Please, more,” he breathes between kisses.

John adds a third finger, sliding all three in and out of Sherlock with careful precision, twisting and curving and scissoring just right to keep Sherlock close to the edge without tipping him over. “Johhhn,” he whines.

After a few more strokes, John slides his fingers out and moves to kneel between Sherlock’s open legs. Though Sherlock can hardly think, he gropes blindly until he manages to find the still-uncapped bottle and pushes it into John’s palm. John tips the liquid into his hand and strokes himself until he’s well-coated. He grasps the backs of Sherlock’s knees and presses upward, opening him wide and angling his hips up. He grabs a pillow and wedges it under Sherlock’s hips to help him more comfortably maintain his position. It’s been a long time since Sherlock last had sex with anyone, and he knows it would be easier to do this if he were on his front, but neither he nor John seem to have any intention of doing this any other way than this. Even though he can barely open his eyes, he wants to see John’s face when he first pushes inside of Sherlock. He wants to watch every flicker of his eyelids and every slack-jawed moan. He wants to know what John’s face looks like when he comes, to know that he made John look that way.

John lines himself up and pauses, looking at Sherlock for reassurance. Sherlock forces his eyes to stay open and meet John’s gaze. He manages a barely perceptible nod, and then John’s hands are on his hips and he’s there, slowly inching into Sherlock’s body, and Sherlock can’t breathe, and he can’t speak, and he can’t hear anything beyond the overwhelming, blissful silence in his head, but somehow, _somehow_ , he manages to keep his eyes open long enough to see the way John’s jaw clenches and then relaxes and the way his midnight eyes go wide and then heavily close and the way his nose flares with deep, labored breaths as he fights the urge to move faster, push harder, give in.

Sherlock finally lets his eyelids drop closed, concentrating instead on the slow, sweet ache of his muscles as they stretch to allow John inside. When he’s finally pressed all the way in, John stills. “Sherlock,” he says softly, his voice full of quiet reverence. “Open your eyes, love.”

 _Love._ John called him _love_. John is inside him and called him love, and that is the most perfect thing that has ever happened in the history of the whole damn universe. Sherlock opens his eyes long enough to locate John’s perfect mouth and kiss him deeply.

When they break apart again, they hold each other’s gaze as John tests out a roll of his hips, and a powerful moan rumbles up from Sherlock’s chest. John rolls his hips away and back again. And again. And again. Sherlock’s legs slide around him, his bony feet locking together behind John’s muscular back and pressing their bodies more closely together. As John continues to rock into him, his undulating stomach brushes against Sherlock’s aching cock, providing just enough pressure to remind him of how badly he needs to be touched. Sherlock can’t help the whimpers spilling from his mouth or the way his hands thread wildly through his hair, desperate to find something to hold on to.

This time when John rolls his hips he punctuates it with a _snap_ that sends a shockwave through every nerve in Sherlock’s body, and his back arches hard enough to momentarily lift him from the bed.

“Mmm. Like that?” John asks, his voice a half-step away from a growl.

Sherlock can’t find the words to reply--he can’t even seem to locate wherever it is that language is stored in his brain, and even if he could, he doubts he’d be able to figure out which words would make an appropriate response. There’s only one word that he does know, the one word that fills every corner of his mind, the word that is written on the depths of his soul. “Johhhhhhhhn,” he whines in desperation.

Roll, snap. Roll, snap. Rolllllll, snap. And finally, _finally_ , John wraps his warm, still-slick hand around Sherlock’s leaking cock and begins to pump in time with the unrelenting rhythm of his hips. Sherlock’s every cell is an instrument attuned to John’s ruthless conducting, their song rising to a frenetic tempo, and this time when John snaps his hips forward, the symphony crescendos, and Sherlock is coming and coming, thick ribbons spattering across his chest and stomach and John’s name tumbling from his lips, a prayer and a curse.

Two more long thrusts and John is coming, too, groaning in pleasure as his cock pulses deep inside Sherlock’s arse, filling him with John’s come. When his brain flickers back online, Sherlock can’t recall sex ever being this satisfying before.

John pulls out carefully and collapses onto Sherlock’s chest. They pant heavily against one another, exhausted and satiated. Years go by--or maybe just minutes, Sherlock can’t be quite sure--before he can breathe normally again, and when he finally feels a bit less like he might die from the lack of oxygen, he opens his eyes to find John watching him intently, a sappy grin plastered on his face. “That… was amazing.”

“Do you think so?” Sherlock chuckles. Then John laughs, too, and then they can’t seem to stop laughing until they’re both wiping tears from their eyes. Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s back and pulls him up for a languid kiss. John drops his head back to Sherlock’s chest with a pleased sigh, and Sherlock takes the opportunity to press his nose to John’s hair and breathe him in, the peppermint and tea tree oil scent of John’s shampoo mixed with scotch and sweat and sex and that _something else_ that’s purely John. It’s a scent that speaks of early morning crime scenes and late night takeaway, of danger and domesticity, of flashes of anger and lifetimes of love. Of togetherness. Of comfort. Of _home_.

Sherlock’s last thought before sleep pulls him under is _never have I ever been this happy before._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to [drool-is-love](http://drool-is-love.tumblr.com) for drawing some [fan art](http://drool-is-love.tumblr.com/post/127988626463/softly-john-says-never-have-i-ever-been-in) of this fic. I'm seriously so honored that you thought this fic was worthy of your time and effort to draw something.
> 
>  
> 
> You can find me on tumblr as [hudders-and-hiddles](http://hudders-and-hiddles.tumblr.com).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [In a manner of speaking I'm dead](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12538488) by [fellshish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fellshish/pseuds/fellshish)




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